Read The Irish Village Murder Online

Authors: Dicey Deere

The Irish Village Murder (7 page)

BOOK: The Irish Village Murder
5.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
 
 
A
t four o'clock, Inspector O'Hare arrived back at the Ballynagh police station from his meeting with Chief Superintendent Emmet O'Reilly of the Murder Squad at Dublin Castle. The late-afternoon sun slanted through the plate-glass window. Nelson came yawning from his basket, wagging his tail.
“Collins and Sheedy called,” Sergeant Bryson said by way of greeting. “They'll be faxing us a copy of John Gwathney's will. They said by five o'clock.”
“Good.” O'Hare sat heavily down at his desk and Bryson poured tea from the pot on the electric two-burner on top of the soda machine and put the steaming mug on a paper napkin on O'Hare's desk, along with two fig cookies.
O‘Hare bit into a cookie. He was still seeing Chief Superintendent Emmet O'Reilly at the mahogany desk in Dublin Castle. O'Reilly, in his well-tailored suit. He was hearing O'Reilly's cultivated upper-class voice reading the report from forensics: No fingerprints found at Gwathney Hall, not a hair, not a sliver of fingernail, no thread from the killer's clothes, only a bit of mud from the woods, likely from a shoe, but they had no shoe print. A search of the nearby surrounding woods had turned up nothing, not even a few broken branches where John Gwathney's killer might have lain, watching, waiting. “So the crime is
deductive,” Emmet O'Reilly had said, ice-blue eyes regarding O'Hare. “Your bailiwick, Egan.”
O'Hare had nodded, trying to remember the difference between
deductive
and
inductive,
as though it made any difference; it was the kind of thing Ms. Torrey Tunet would know offhand.
The chief superintendent had gone on. “You've acquitted yourself remarkably, Egan, these last couple of years.” An approving half-smile.
“Thank you, Emmet,” he'd answered, feeling unease, hope, determination. Great expectations from Dublin Headquarters.
Now at his own desk, he munched the second cookie and drew a pad toward him to jot down notes.
“I'm off.” Sergeant Bryson put on his cap. “Got to pick up the motorbike; Dugan said it was the carburetor, he'd have it ready by four.” Ballynagh boasted one police car and one motorbike. On the way out, Bryson gave a small-sized biscuit to Nelson, who nuzzled it out of his hand.
The door had barely closed behind Sergeant Bryson when O'Hare heard the low screech of the fax machine on Bryson's desk.
At the fax machine, he stood rocking on his heels watching the pages emerge. Collins and Sheedy. As promised.
It was eight pages, single-spaced.
Back at his desk, he stapled the pages together, rubbed his hands, wished he hadn't given up smoking, and settled down to read the batch of pages entitled “The Last Will and Testament of John Gwathney.”
 
Some minutes later, Inspector O'Hare sat gazing out through the glass-fronted window of the police station. It was half after five, a sudden and early dusk; dark clouds had appeared among the mountaintops. Across the cobbled street, the lights in the Grogan Sisters Knitting Shop shone yellow. The only sound
was a creaky yawn from Nelson, who was again curled up in his basket.
The will. Inspector O'Hare looked down at the document on his desk. But what he was seeing was a chilly November autumn morning of six years ago, when he was out hunting for quail and pheasant on the other side of Devon Pond and had encountered Megan O'Faolain. Shotgun in hand, she'd managed only a skinny hare. Thin as she'd become, she looked a wild beauty, what with that ivory brow and dark hair tumbled about in the wind.
Remembering now, Inspector O'Hare gave a snort. No wonder when, on that rainy day six years ago, John Gwathney had taken refuge in that bare weaver's shop, he'd come out with more than a handwoven throw! And who was to complain of the romantic alliance that developed between John Gwathney and Megan O'Faolain?
But then … a year—two years ago? When did it start? Those whispers in the village. Gossip. That while John Gwathney was away on research trips, Megan O'Faolain had been seen, more than once, walking in the woods with a man. No one knew, at first, who the man was. But because this was Ballynagh, where little could remain secret, the name of Megan's … lover? was quickly whispered about.
Inspector O'Hare rubbed his forehead. John Gwathney must have somehow finally learned of Megan's betrayal. And with what justifiable rage!
Slut. Whore.
John Gwathney at the bar at O'Malley's Pub, sliding his cane between Liam Caffrey's legs as he got off the stool. Could've broken Caffrey's leg. No accident.
Liam Caffrey. He'd shown up two years ago in Ballynagh. Had enough money to hire Sullivan & Sons to do a decent rebuilding job of the old dwelling. It was a solitary spot, a half
mile outside the village. People in the arts—painters, sculptors, potters, artisans of all sorts—were choosing such spots all over Ireland. Word of mouth brought tourists down the byways to buy their works.
So, Liam Caffrey. Hard, clipped voice, faint Scottish accent. Brown eyes, dark as mahogany. Khaki pants and black sweater his usual. Well-scuffed brogues. A lean, strong, narrow-eyed man.
Liam Caffrey and Megan O'Faolain. She, with most to lose.
O'Hare rubbed his chin. Liam Caffrey—who was he, and where did he come from, bringing what interior baggage? O'Hare scribbled a note. Worth getting a report.
He took a deep breath and looked down at John Gwathney's will lying on his desk. It was dated four years ago. Aloud, he said softly, “A pity!”
 
“Jasper?” Cross-legged on the worn couch, in jeans and her old plaid shirt, Torrey held the phone to her ear and balanced the mug of tea on one knee.
“Jasper? Where are you calling from? The chestnuts you ordered arrived. So you owe me four pounds. What time are you getting back here?”
“Alas, my love. I'm still in Belfast, more trouble among the addlepated heads of … Dare I say it? Take care of the chestnuts. We'll have them glazed in Madeira, with the duckling. Eventually.”
“I hate that word, it's so—”
“I'll be out of touch for about a week. Comfort yourself with apples.” A full-bellied laugh. “What's with the Portuguese? A firm commitment from your Myra Schwartz?”
“Not yet.” She lifted the mug of tea and took a sip. Lukewarm. Lukewarm in Portuguese? “Warm” was
quente
in Portuguese. But lukewarm? She glanced at the Portuguese dictionary beside her on the couch.
A clatter from Jasper's end of the phone, then a buzzing. “Hold it,” Jasper said. A click. She waited. Another click, then Jasper's voice, “I'm off … What about the—Did you read the rest of Gwathney's manuscript? Thereby setting your curiosity at rest?”
“No. The manuscript was gone. Roger Flannery said on RTE that John Gwathney had destroyed it a
month
ago because it wasn't up to snuff. Figure
that
one out.”
A silence. Then: “Maybe two different manuscripts? The answer might be in Gwathney's journal. You gave the journal to Inspector O'Hare, right?”
“Well, no.” She told him then: the journal was gone.
Jasper's voice when he spoke held a hint of wonder.
“
Penchant
, my lass. As the French would have it. An inclination. You were born with it, my lass, an inclination … in
your
case, toward trouble.” And he added, “A slippery slope. Be careful, my love. We have many good meals ahead of us.”
 
 
F
inney's popular Sunday Special Breakfast, served from eight o'clock to noon, was two sausages, eggs, tomatoes, bacon, tea and the special biscuits made by Mary Finney, Jack Finney's wife, from her grandmother's secret recipe.
Winifred Moore, seated at the window table across from Sheila, ordered the Special, then sat back and luxuriously opened the Sunday
Dublin Times.
She was wearing a duck-hunting cap and had shrugged off her parka, so that it hung on the back of her chair. She had an hour's hike behind her, and three cigarettes ahead of her.
Sheila, who had her coat over her shoulders, wore two sweaters and her Swedish knitted cap that covered her ears. Just now, she was hesitating over whether to order the Special, what with Winifred always after her to gain. But no, she decided firmly, just toast, “ … very lightly toasted, and orange juice and tea,” she told Elsie, the youngest Finney girl, and Elsie went off with their orders.
“Sheila!
Well!
John Gwathney's will!” Winifred had folded back the page of the
Dublin Times.
Her hazel eyes wide, she read the item, silently moving her lips.
“Well,
what?
” Sheila fretfully pulled her coat more closely around her narrow shoulders. “I
so
dislike when you do that, Winifred! I am
not,
after all, a
lip
-reader.”
“Hmmm?” Winifred rattled the page and looked up. “Gwathney wrote his will four years ago.” She went back to lip-reading. Sheila sighed and waited until Winifred abruptly looked up.
“My God, Sheila! Megan O'Faolain! Megan gets Gwathney Hall and all its contiguous lands. And practically everything else! An absolute cornucopia of … Megan's now a rich woman!”
“My heavens! What about relatives and such?”
Winifred shook her head. “There aren't any Gwathney relatives. He was the last of the lot. He's left a couple of minor bequests. One to the Ballynagh library, another to a historical society in Galway, and”—Winifred referred again to the
Times—
“one painting, a Landseer, 1845, to ‘Roger Flannery, my trusted associate.'”
“A
Landseer!
” Sheila put a hand to her heart. “It must be worth a fortune! Maybe half a million pounds. Or a
million
.” She hesitated, then: “About Megan inheriting the estate … you know what the rumors are. About how she and Liam Caffrey … not that so far there's actually any
incriminating—
”
“Look! There's Torrey Tunet.” Winifred waved and beckoned.
 
Winifred pushed out a chair with her foot and Torrey sat down. “I'm starved. My stove failed this morning, so …” She picked up the menu. Actually, she had burned the frozen biscuits that Jasper had left for her. But what
kind
of a cook she was was nobody's business. She was wearing her parka and her close-fitting leather air pilot's cap from World War I, it was her favorite find at a jumble sale. In Jasper's view, she wore that pilot's cap just before taking off on some bewildering tack.
But she wasn't taking off anywhere, certainly not to Portugal. An hour ago, an e-mail from Myra Schwartz in Boston had informed her of an outbreak of a flulike virus in Lisbon.
Nothing
else on the hob,
Myra had added.
Anyway, Lisbon is just a postponement. Stay cool.
“Have you heard? John Gwathney's will!” Winifred smacked the
Times
on the edge of the table.
Torrey nodded. “Yes, it was on the radio this morning.” And to Elsie Finney, “The Special, Elsie.” A moment later she smelled an expensive men's cologne and became aware of a man standing beside the table.
“Blake! Blake Rossiter!” Winifred said, sounding pleased. “Table's big enough for four, sit down. Where've you been? This is Torrey Tunet, in case you haven't met.”
“We haven't. Hello.” Blake Rossiter, maybe in his sixties, had a baritone voice. He flashed a smile at Torrey and sat down across from her. A handsome balding man with sand-colored eyebrows and mustache, he was lightly tanned and wore a corduroy country jacket and well-worn designer jeans with an expensive-looking copper buckle. “Been in Brussels, these last weeks. A major business deal, then a retrospective of Belgian artists. Got back last night.” He rubbed his eyes, which were pale blue, the whites faintly pink. “I'd rather have been fishing in Ballynagh.”
Torrey learned that Blake Rossiter was an art dealer with a gallery in Dublin, who spent weekends in Ballynagh where, for the past dozen years, he'd had a country house some four miles past the stone bridge. “I became addicted to this Wicklow countryside,” he said, turning to Torrey. “I'm a Sunday painter, à la Winston Churchill. Landscapes. Setting up my easel almost anywhere. Wonderful, these hills and the Wicklow Mountains. And peaceful.”
“Peaceful!” Winifred said, “You've heard about John Gwathney being murdered?”
Blake Rossiter nodded his tanned, balding head. “God, yes! Even in Brussels, the news … He's a historic figure. A terrible
thing to have happened. And I read this morning's
Times.
About his will. That Landseer! Damn it! I'd known Gwathney in a neighborly way, but I didn't know he was interested in such valuable paintings. If I'd known …” He smoothed his mustache, made a wry face, and gave a laugh. “Missed a bit of business, I'd say. Ah, well!”
Winifred said comfortingly, “John Gwathney bought his few paintings years ago, before you ever came to Ballynagh.”
“Yes, well.” Blake Rossiter looked at his watch, then drew out a small black expensive-looking address book, checked an address, and got up. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Tunet,” he said, and, to Winifred, “I saw you through the window, just came in to say hello. I'd hoped to have a peaceful afternoon in Ballynagh, but I've a two-o'clock meeting in Dublin.” He got up.
Blake Rossiter was gone barely a minute when Winifred said, “Thickening a bit through the middle, but a charmer who's doubtless still attractive to women. Wouldn't you say so, Torrey?”
“Hmmm?” Torrey was pulling at the strap of the pilot's cap under her chin. Address book. Not black, like Rossiter's, but fawn-colored. Something about John Gwathney's fawn-colored little address book. Elusive. If she could just pin down what it was.
BOOK: The Irish Village Murder
5.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

A Conspiracy of Ravens by Gilbert Morris
Vigil in the Night by A. J. Cronin
The Falcon and the Snowman by Robert Lindsey
Nice Girls Finish Last by Sparkle Hayter
Everland by Wendy Spinale
Denying Dare by Amber Kell
To Walk the Night by E. S. Moore